


Overdosing Dreams

by Im_The_Doctor (Bofur1)



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Youtube RPF
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Caretaking, Caring, Concern, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Fainting, Help, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Mid-Canon, Misunderstandings, Multiple Selves, Nausea, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Panic, Surprises, Unconsciousness, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 16:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14501088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bofur1/pseuds/Im_The_Doctor
Summary: Jackieboy accidentally takes someone else's spiked drink. As soon as the effects set in, however, he's intercepted by a rather unlikely ally.





	Overdosing Dreams

Jackieboy had never been one to get drunk, at least not intentionally. He was a crime fighter, after all; there was nothing worse he could imagine than getting called out on a mission while he was plastered, so he generally stayed in the range of “comfortably tipsy.”

The others had always teased him about being incapable of holding his liquor and frankly, he couldn’t exactly deny it. When he drank, he hit bottom faster than the rest of them and was often told the next day that he’d made an absolute fool of himself, weeping over the others and telling them how much they meant to him.

That said, he never actually _tried_ to reach that point, so he couldn’t help feeling rather bewildered at how his latest drink was affecting him. Technically it hadn’t been his; a woman a few seats down from him at the bar counter had leaned over and muttered to him, smiling apologetically.

“Hey there…some guy bought me a drink, but I’m pretty much done for the night. I’ve got studying to do in the morning and all. Don’t want it to go to waste, though…You want it?”

It would only be his third shot, so he’d accepted and thanked her for it, already quite used to the clean, sharp burn of the scotch as it hit the back of his throat. What he _wasn’t_ expecting was the wave of dizziness as soon as he tried to slide off the barstool; he’d barely shifted an inch before he was forced to slump back down, pressing his palms flat against the bar in an attempt to steady himself. When had his hands become so clammy?

Had he already gone over his limit? Jackie wondered hazily, trying to force his twirling vision into focus. He’d been nursing a fourth drink for about fifteen minutes, but he usually made it to the bottom of the glass before he started toeing away from “tipsy” and into “totaled”.

Something had to be wrong, but his body wasn’t receiving his mind’s message to panic. Instead it had gone limp and heavy without his permission, weighed down by the alcohol, while his mind felt as if it had started floating away like a lost balloon. Somewhere in the middle ground, his lungs weren’t getting enough air. He had a desperate need to duck under the counter and throw up, but he couldn’t even breathe—He couldn’t _breathe_ —

Despite the tremors tearing through his frame, Jackie was able to muster the strength for one sluggish heave, though instead of sending him up, the push propelled him _backward_ , falling awkwardly off the stool. He slammed his knee against the underside of the counter as he toppled, but the pain was absorbed into the numb, dull impact of someone else’s arms as they caught him.

“Whoa, whoa, easy there,” the voice belonging to the arms (the arms belonging to the voice?) urged just behind him, barely audible underneath the pounding music.

Jackie’s head lolled back against a solid surface—someone’s chest?—and he blinked weakly, trying to latch onto a face to match the voice, but the lights overhead were blinding, blurring, nauseating.

“Had a few too many drinks? You probably need someone t’take you home, don’t you?” the voice questioned, sounding almost amused.

Those words were dangerous ones, ones Jackie recognized instantly. He had warned college students whenever he happened to see them at a bar; if they ever heard those words, they needed to make a commotion, try to get someone’s attention. That he did now, but his attempt at thrashing was little more than a pronounced shudder.

“ _No_ ,” he wanted to protest, “ _No, no, it’s not that! Get away from me, don’t take me anywhere!_ ” When he tried to respond, however, he couldn’t force the slurred sounds tumbling out of his mouth into any coherent words. The voice spoke over him, wary concern laced through it.

“Okay, are you drunk or concussed?” Jackieboy was hefted a little higher, propped, and one of the hands supporting him gripped the side of his neck, calloused fingers feeling for his pulse point. “Ugh, I’m no good at this touchy-feelin’… Well, sounds like your heart’s laggin’ on the job. Knowing you Septic boys and how bright and bushy you usually are, you’re definitely not yourself!”

 _Septic_ …The voice knew about…? Before he could even consider whether or not to be threatened or relieved by this revelation, the darkness creeping in around the edges of his vision took advantage, dragging on him, draining the color out of the world around him. His drowsy mind buckled, folding in on itself, and consciousness circled down, down, down into the black hole waiting below.

His next visit to the outside world was a brief one—all he could smell was musk and piney air freshener. Somewhere along the line he’d slumped against a car window, the smudges of his sweat on the glass distorting the view of the passing streetlights. The rumble of the truck underneath him made him tingle, as if his whole body was asleep, and his disjointed, disconcerted murmuring couldn’t do anything to stall his mind’s decision to slide back into sleep with it.

When he drifted awake the second time, it was to the worst thing he could possibly have imagined: he was in a bed that wasn’t his own. As soon as he realized it, his breath shifted into shrill, panicked gasps, but no matter how he strained, his body refused the order to move. The small motion of lifting his head made his stomach roll over preemptively and his following dry cough became a wet, heaving retch without warning.

“Hey!” The exclamation was promptly followed by some growled curses as strong hands gripped his shoulder and hauled him onto his side, letting him empty his stomach without the risk of drowning in its contents.

The hands were the same ones from before, Jackie realized distantly. He remembered them propping him up as he fell from the stool but everything afterward was too faint for him to grasp. Right now he focused on nothing but dragging air into his lungs, torn between gagging and groaning as one of the hands moved to his back, carefully thumping.

“S’alright, let it all out. Y’know, you could’ve let me know you were awake before spillin’ your guts to the tile,” the voice—oh, yes, the voice was a package deal with the hands—commented wryly. “Not that I care much, but the doc may get a little resentful. This here linoleum cost $3.50 per square.”

Linoleum—So this wasn’t a bedroom. An exam room, maybe? Jackieboy could barely follow what was being said; with the renewed nausea was a splitting headache, one which finally forced his leaden body stiff as he shuddered with pain. The hands paused in their ministrations for a moment or two and then became a bit gentler in their patting.

“It’d probably be better for you if you kept sleepin’ this off,” the voice remarked ruefully, the hands sliding away and leaving Jackieboy numb where they used to be. “I’ll be takin’ care of this $3.50-per-square mess you just made.”

Unable to muster the strength for an answer, Jackie stayed where he was on his side, clutching weakly at the thin sheets bunched around him and just now registering their starch, sterile scent. He could hear the thump of boots as the voice’s owner came around, moving off into the dimmer side of the room before Jackie could get a good look at him. The streaming square of white light that struck as the nearby door opened forced him to clench his eyes shut instead of trying.

“Well, Edgar, how’s he—? Oh. Well, then! I guess I should’ve put a bucket under the bed in case of something like this,” a different voice deadpanned from the open doorway. To Jackieboy he sounded miles away. “Let’s hope that’s all he has to show. Schneeplestein’s here to take him home.”

Edgar? _Schneep_ —? The miles between them promptly shrank at that and Jackie returned his glazed eyes to the doorway, ignoring how they watered against the light as Henrik shouldered past Dr. Iplier and made a beeline toward him, muttering something anxiously in German before crouching into his field of vision.

“H’n…?” the hero ventured sluggishly, to which his friend forced a brief smile.

“Of all the times not to handle your liquor, this was the worst,” he murmured, somehow managing to sound relieved and strained simultaneously. “Is a good thing you had an Iplier to save you.”

Jackieboy swallowed thickly, glancing blearily up at Edgar, who simply shrugged and tipped his hat.

“Well, ‘not all heroes wear capes’ and all that,” he quipped before skirting past Schneep’s side and beginning the business of throwing paper towels over the mess Jackieboy had made.

What would have happened if he hadn’t come along at the right time? The grisly prospects didn’t bear thinking about. If Jackie were more alert, he would be certain to thank Edgar for getting him out before anything could happen, but at the moment he was too distracted by the movement of Schneep’s fingers as they brushed his damp hair away from his forehead. His friend’s hand was shaking, but no one mentioned it.

“He’ll be feeling like himself again after a few days. Here, I did a drug test,” Dr. Iplier announced as he slid a clipboard under Schneep’s nose. Jackieboy’s eyes flickered slightly as Henrik’s hand tightened against his forehead. Again, whether it was out of relief or strain, Jackie didn’t know. All he knew was that it was warm and snug, a comforting presence, and it wasn’t leaving.

It would probably be an inconvenience for him to doze off again now, but knowing them, they wouldn’t let anything happen to him. He was safe with them, even in this state, and that was reason enough to follow Edgar’s advice and keep sleeping it off.


End file.
